


Rak Dorr Ahzirr, Pelin

by Azucarera



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, BAMF Lydia, Canon-Typical Violence, Erik is the Dragonborn, Fantastic Racism, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Lydia Carries Everyone's Burdens, Mentor Khajiit, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Power of Friendship, Slow Build, not the best heroes but they're the only ones we have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azucarera/pseuds/Azucarera
Summary: Ajda's heart dwells in the warm sands and golden oases of Elsewyr and the frost-capped mountains and wild plains of Skyrim. But what this one's heart loves the most is the people—especially one particular farm boy named Erik with an unhealthy penchant for getting his sorry ass into trouble. Well, love was too deep of a word. It was more of a profound attachment to that one person who enjoyed hunting and adventure as much as this one did. Honestly, who else was going to keep the boy alive in the wilds, if not Ajda?





	1. The Scourge Over Helgen

**Author's Note:**

> In which a lone Khajiit hunter who has absolutely nothing to do with Nords, dragons, and Dragonborns ends up with having absolutely everything to do with Nords, dragons, and Dragonborns—especially when said Dragonborn is a farm boy named Erik with an unhealthy penchant for getting his sorry ass into trouble.
> 
> This story is told in a Khajiit's first-person perspective. As is known, Khajiit refer to themselves in the third person, so words such as "this one" and "Khajiit" would be used in place of "I" and "me".

Sundas, 16th of Last Seed, 4E201  
10:45 PM

Sundas nights are good nights. Rain or clear skies, there was nothing better than a well-earned night of good food and even better rest. One may not see any difference between one day an another, but Khajiit had been told that if one would assign a particular day as one’s ‘good day’, that day shall forever bring fair fortune. This one knew how inane it was, but one had to keep oneself afloat, especially if one was but a lone Khajiit hunter camping too close near the Cyrodiil border. This one would not have chosen such a place to set up camp had she even had a choice in the first place; there was news of a wolf pack causing travellers some trouble just north of Helgen, south of Riverwood. Wolf pelts fetched a decent price and bought better provisions. There was not much in this one's pack, after all—just three wedges of cheese, a few strips of smoked beef, a fast-diminishing loaf of bread, a jar of honey, and two-and-a-half bottles of the worst ale this side of the Hold. There was barely enough for a fortnight's travel. 

This one was just fortunate enough to have aided a caravan of her fellow kin earlier today and received a small share of their food in return—ham glazed with moon sugar instead of honey. Having it for a Sundas supper, under a clear night sky where the aurora danced with the light of Secunda and Masser, was lovely beyond words. If this one possessed a more sensitive soul, she would have been singing contentedly. 

This one's luck was nothing but good. No wolf, bear, nor drunken Nord had bothered her the days before, and she had pilfered a sizeable amount of septims and tradeable trinkets from a few bandit camps too. If fair winds blew, she would not have too much trouble with the wolves on the morrow. 

Sundas nights were good nights, indeed, but this night was significantly better than most. With the sweetness of the ham lingering on her tongue, this one knew she would sleep well tonight.

  


* * *

  


Morndas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E201  
9:30 AM

No morning was always the same, but Khajiit always felt that misty Morndas morns, with the skies a deep dark blue just moments before the rising sun and with dewdrops dampening her feet, were the best, especially when the cold was not as biting as the Frostfall chill. This one awoke a little later than intended and missed the early sunrise. A shame, really. This one was looking forward to the crisp early morning air; she was told the it was good for the mind as well as the complexion, not to mention the earlier this one set out to lay traps for hunting, the better. 

This one slung her pack over her shoulders together with her longbow and quiver and made her way deeper into the forest. She had spent over half a week tracking and assessing this particular pack’s movements. There were three in the pack, two grey wolves, lithe and agile, flanking the alpha. The alpha was a handsome thing—all size and muscle, built for strength and endurance—with tawny brown fur and bright intelligent eyes. Khajiit surmised they had descended from Orphan Rock, close to Falkreath’s Stormcloak Camp. Had the soldiers kept the wolves from their hunt somehow? If so, this one did not like that one bit. Soldiers were many things, but the gift of foresight in keeping the balance of the land and her children was not among them. Animals being driven away from their homes and hunting grounds from the actions of man was too common a thing, one that often lead to another's endangerment. 

Then again, if it not for the wolves causing trouble, this one would have gone hungry. 

A chill in the air froze this one in her tracks and halted her rambling thoughts. The fur on her neck, spine, and tail stood on end, and her ears and nose twitched violently. There was something in the wind, but it was no storm. No, this one had a feeling it was worse—much, much worse. 

An elk burst out of the thicket and nearly trampled this one, had she not sprung out of the way. This one rolled under a log to take shelter from the stampede of woodland animals—even the rabbits looked like they would have no trouble flipping a mammoth over had it stood in their way. This one had never smelled nor felt this kind of fear before. 

What came next was a terrifying roar louder than thunder and a gust of wind akin to a hurricane. A _dragon_—Divines preserve all—a great winged dragon blacker than obsidian, with scales as jagged as canyon rock, and whose wings plunged the forest into shadow, swooped down from the heavens. 

This one dove under a rocky outcropping, her fur spiked and her breath coming out in quick, terrified pants. The dragon roared once more, this time a full, deep, and prolonged cry that sent another spike of terror into this one. All this one's bestial instincts shrieked at her, _runrunrundangerdangerdanger_ but the braver, bolder, and inexplicably, hopelessly stupid side of her trembled not in fear, but in anticipation.

Anticipation for what, exactly, this one did not know. Nevertheless, this one emerged from her little hiding spot, fur still spiked and knees shaking like jazbay jelly. The dragon circled the skies once, twice, and then swooped down the earth as a falcon would its prey. It disappeared behind the great trees but its the beat of its wings and its roar was sure to be heard beyond a hundred-thousand leagues. Screams, distinctly and horrifyingly human, pierced through the air. 

If this one stood as frozen as the bitterly chilling tundras in the farthest north from shock at the winged beast's sudden appearance, the screams were enough to thaw her quicker than a snowflake on a hot pan. Against rhyme or reason, this one bolted straight for the carnage, her heart beating faster than anything she had ever known. Run this one did, not stopping once to catch her precious breath, while thanking the Divines for blessing her kind with the lightest and swiftest feet. 

This one had never been this close to the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil for fear of the severe and dangerous-looking Imperials and Nords patrolling the land. Now that the border guards were scattered, panicking, half-dead, and burned by dragon fire, this one did as she could have to bring as many men and women to safety, self-preservation and wherefores be damned. 

A Stormcloak soldier, judging by his worn blue and grey armor, came barrelling towards this one. Behind him, the dragon’s gargantuan head with its blood-red, slitted eyes was trained in their exact direction. This one barely had the time to grab the man and bring him down with her under a pile of rock and rubble when the beast opened its maw and shot out a great stream of flame that felt as if the tragedy of Morrowind itself had befallen them.

This one gave the Stormcloak soldier a clinical glance to see whether he was roasted in some parts. He was thankfully whole and hale, and this one wasted no time removing the strip of cloth that gagged him and the rough rope that chafed at his wrists. The poor man was definitely among the captured prisoners. This one could barely imagine what it was for him and the rest of the prisoners, surviving the executioner’s block just to probably die from the destruction of a beast of legend. But then again, most of the Stormcloaks were Nords and if there was one thing about Nords that confused this one, it was their odd concept of “dying gloriously” or something like that. Maybe death by dragon was not such a bad way to go, if this one had the privilege to choose. 

The soldier gave this one a brief once-over with his gaze. He barely concealed the sardonic turn of his lips but he nevertheless granted this one a begrudging look of thanks. This one sighed. He was one of those people—_Tasmiita_, Nords, who were not very fond of those outside of their race or kin, to put it delicately. This particular Nord’s face was pulled into a frown, making him look more aged than he truly was. His reddish hair was matted and scraggly, with loose strands and clumps coming off his braids. Still, the soldier held himself with a calm, measured sort of dignity that this one envied. The soldier was high-born, there was no doubt; but with death in the form of a dark fire-breathing dragon looming above them, this one and this high-born soldier were equals. 

Just when the fire had ended, a hailstorm of flaming rocks came crashing down the earth.

"By the Divines' holiest shits!" this one screeched. This one would have loved to stick her head out of her little hiding spot just to bombard the dragon with the rudest gestures, but circumstances demanded this one settle for cursing instead. "Damn you, you blasted overgrown gecko! This one bets those horns are nothing but mutated warts, you ugly, snaggletoothed, crooked-clawed reptilian! A blight on you and your kin! And if _ever_ your jagged, scaly behind would _reproduce_, Divines preserve us, _kiz jer ma'a vaba k'sharraji wo kele skroma!"_

"That's one way to get yourself—and by extension, myself—killed," deadpanned the Stormcloak soldier.

"It is not this one's fault the Divines have definitely been at Sheggorath's skooma stash," this one spat, ignoring the choked sound coming from the soldier. This one risked a peek outside. "Looks like it is out of breath. When Khajiit says go, make for the nearest exit or the sturdiest building, whichever you think will not get you barbecued,” 

"Isn't that the most reassuring thing a rescuer can ever say,” said the soldier in his damnably calm, even voice, as if the second coming of Merrunz was not just a few inches from where they were.

“Go!”

A momentary lapse in the onslaught was enough for this one to emerge from her oven-baked shelter, nock an arrow into her trusty bow and aim at the dragon’s wing membranes. A decent enough tear in the skin was usually enough to rob a winged animal of its flight. Without it, the lizardy abomination was as good as dead. 

This one prayed for Hircine’s blessing—for this one’s shots to strike true. Under the same breath, this one prayed for Khenarthi’s winds to guide the soldier and the rest of the people to safety. 

Arrow after arrow this one shot, only to have each break, rebound, or splinter upon contact. The great dragon then turned its great horned head towards the sky and laughed.

"ZU'U LOST DAAL!" the dragon thundered, and beat its mighty wings. Its voice reverberated throughout the air, sending people to their knees, and shaking the earth. 

All logic completely eviscerated from this one’s adrenaline-addled mind, this one let loose a great rumbling roar—one that would have made her Pahmar kin proud—straight at the blasted dragon.

The dragon reared its head and bellowed once again.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

A great burst of flame burned a path straight towards this one. This one let out a string of the most colorful oaths she had picked up from her travels while zigzagging through the yard on all fours. 

“It’s no use!” bellowed someone, “Even Elven steel does nothing!”

“Run!”

“Flee to the trees!”

“Get behind me!”

“Healing! I need healing!"

"Strike at the eyes!"

"Gods help us!"

"It's the End Times!"

"Get the townspeople to safety, dammit!"

This one spotted a woman in Imperial armor limping towards the gate dragging a shattered leg that was only attached to the rest of her with naught but a strand of muscle and prayers. The dragon’s tail whipped out faster than a snake pouncing on its prey and laid waste to the gate, sending a hailstorm of stone upon their heads. This one had to be just quicker than the blink of an eye to haul the woman into a broken and burning shack that was once a home. 

While the destruction went on without a sign of ceasing, the woman—a Nord by the muscles in her arms, the ferocity of her snarl, and her towering height—ripped a strip off her tunic and used it as a tourniquet on just above her useless leg. This one felt her eyes grow wide at the implication. There was no telling whether in the spike of adrenaline in her belly was due to horror or fascination. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve a chopping blade for me to use, do you?” the woman said, her voice coming out tight through her gritted teeth. She uncorked two potion bottles and downed the contents, wincing slightly at the taste. 

“Allow Khajiit. It will hurt less.” This one said, her voice violently wavering. This one gripped the woodsman’s axe strapped to her pack and positioned it over where the Nord's upper and lower leg bones connected. The Nord steeled herself and roared in pain and shock when the axe was brought down upon her leg with a sickening crunch of bone and sinew.

The Nord's shouts descended into mad fits of laughter. This one hoisted the Nord upon her shoulder as they escaped their temporary sanctuary. “Oblivion take me raw and willing,” the woman rasped, “What I wouldn’t give to down a bellyful of mead and a healing potion right now,”

This one freely rolled her eyes. Nords.

“My comrades,” the woman grunted, “They would be somewhere in the caves below the keep—”

The dragon roared once again, the lengthiest and loudest among the ones that came before, and left an aching throb in this one’s highly sensitive ears. This one spared a look at the beast as it spread its magnificent wings, beating them as if to summon a whirlwind. The dragon then took flight, its massive bulk strangely serpentine in its grace as it cut through the air, ascending higher and higher until it disappeared into the clouds. 

For one blessedly yet agonizingly still moment, all sound seemed to have been extinguished. Not even the sharp crackling of fire, the groaning of the collapsing structures, and the men’s cries of pain registered in this one’s normally hypersensitive ears. The heavy, ragged breaths of her companion sounded as if this one’s ears were clogged with water. The world may as well have stood still in those moments. This one had never seen such chaos and destruction in her life. Had this one a simpler mind with a weaker heart, there would be tears washing the dirt and soot away from her scarred cheeks. 

There was no thought in this one's mind; not a curse nor lament at the desolation of a dragon's wrath. There was nothing but numbness. 

The Nord's swearing brought this one back to reality.

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but do you know a little healing magic?" 

This coughed to moisten her throat before replying. "_Urada_—sorry, no, Khajiit has never used magic before... but after witnessing all this, this one supposes now would be a good time to start learning, yes?”

“Hmph. Figures. From what I’ve seen, you’re strong enough to not rely on prissy Elven sorcery. Leave me at the keep. Hopefully that old healer’s there with the rest of the survivors.” 

This one soon handed the Nord woman over to the safe hands of the resident helaer, who looked harried enough to warrant a stab of pity from this one. Once again, the Nord woman reminded her about her comrades and this one fled to the bowels of the keep, weaving through tumbling rocks and sputtering at dust invading this one’s sensitive nose. 

This one reached the tunnels in record time. They lead to a cave where an underground creek flowed and where musty-smelling flora grew. This one heard two staggering breaths among the dead and leaped towards the first one, uncorking a healing potion and pouring the contents into his mouth. This one then rushed to the other injured man laying just a few paces away and offered him the same treatment. This one's fur prickled agitatedly at having to keep the Nord woman's friends alive, but the Divines smiled upon them in those moments. Both men were strong and hardy folk. Within minutes, the two were able to limp towards where this one assumed was the exit. 

They made it just in time before the cave collapsed inward. Rocks and debris blocked the opening, leaving no sign of there ever having been a cave in the first place. Silence ensued for a few tense moments until one of the men, the blond in Stormcloak armor, let out a raspy laugh that sounded like gravel upon a whetstone. The other, a dark-haired, morose-looking man in Imperial livery joined in the hysterics while this one collapsed in weary a heap onto the sweet solid grass. 

“_Mor kha’jay!_ Khajiit is never saving another sorry soul... until next week at the very least.” 

The blond one fell into another round of chuckles while the dark-haired one fixed Khajiit with a grateful look. 

“Thank you,” the Imperial panted, with a heavy Nordic accent—not an Imperial from Cyrodiil, then, this one thought, “We probably wouldn’t have made it without your help,”

“You two are lucky your comrade bade Khajiit to find you. This one did not catch her name but she wore your colors. If you must seek her, she is among the survivors in the keep. Look for a woman without a leg among the injured,”

The Legionnaire let out a sigh of relief. “And the people of Helgen? How fare they?”

“This one is not sure. The chaos... the dragon—”

“The dragon,” the Stormcloak interrupted, “who knows where and when that beast might attack next. The closest town is Riverwood. We must warn them,”

A look of fear and pain passed through the Legionnaire's face. “Riverwood! By the Nine, they're defenseless! I cannot come with you, however. My duty remains here,”

The Stormcloak fixed the Legionnaire with a look that bordered on hostile until it morphed into one of begrudging resignation. “And fulfil it you should. Attend to your comrades, soldier,”

The soldier in question let out a chuckle that sounded far too grim to be humorous. "Looks like I'll be seeing you back in Riverwood. I promise to be civil for the time being,"

"I will too, if you hold yourself to that. Truce for now?"

“Truce for now.” 

The two men clasped forearms and shared a sad sigh that this one felt in her bones. Never had this one seen a legionnaire and a rebel act so civilly towards each other, even after a life or death circumstance; it was as much a novelty as seeing a Nord down a jug of milk. Still, this one had to admire how easily they set aside differences to attend to much larger problems. By the Moons, they were probably the most sensible Nords this one had ever met.

“Before you leave, I’d like to know the name of our little helper here,” the Legionnaire said while offering this one a (rather disarming) smile. “I’m Hadvar,”

“Ralof,” the blond said quite gruffly. 

This one stood from her ungraceful heap and offered the two a courteous bow. “This one is called Ajda.”

"Ajda," the Legionnaire named Hadvar repeated, thoroughly butchering the pronunciation but this one did not mind. "I will remember you, friend, and I guarantee Helgen shall as well."

No other pleasantries beyond that were exchanged in favor of making haste towards Riverwood. This one bade Hadvar goodbye and wished the Moons guide his path. The Nord named Ralof on the other hand, clasped the man’s hand and both wished the other luck and fair fortune. 

This one and her blond companion took off in a light jog down the forest path heading to the stone road. This one then had half a mind to bang her head against a tree when she had nearly forgotten a thing of great importance.

“Ajda’s camp!” this one exclaimed. “This one must pack things up first before we head off. This one also has food for the journey,” 

“Lead on and I’ll follow but only if you promise me some of that food and maybe some decent drink.” Ralof deadpanned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'agra translations:
> 
> Rak dorr ahzirr, Pelin - "Fight for us, Champion"  
Tasmiit - Nord; literally, "norther"  
Kiz jer ma'a vaba k'sharraji wo kele skroma! - "May your children be cursed with a thousand diseases"  
Urada - sorry; apologies


	2. Down the River and Through the Plains

Morndas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E201  
1:15 PM

Ralof was a surprisingly gracious companion, having volunteered to pack up most of this one’s camping gear and crockery. This one was more than grateful to the Nord for even doing more than what she had expected, by way of carrying the more weighty of this one’s possessions. “Never you mind,” he had said while hoisting this one’s pack over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist, “Light as down, these are,” 

“Those weigh as much as Ajda does,” this one had remarked rather lamely, further amusing the Nord. 

"Looks like a kitten would put a bunch of feathers to shame," the other had retorted with a cheeky grin. It was such a far cry from his grim mien from earlier that it nearly gave this one whiplash. 

_"Kitten?!"_

And thus was how this one and insufferable Nord went on their trek to Riverwood. Along the way, Ralof had attempted to ease this one into allying with the Stormcloaks. This one admired how firm the Nord was in his beliefs but no staunch words nor silvery speechcraft would have swayed this one into becoming war-fodder. This one wisely kept her mouth shut, only giving the Nord acknowledging hums sparsed with courtesies such as “Adja respects your convictions”.

“You should head over to Windhelm and join our cause. We could use people like you,” 

“Windhelm? Not the freeze-Khajiit’s-poor-fur-solid Windhelm?”

Ralof’s brow furrowed. “I’ve been told deserts in Elsweyr become as cold as Skyrim at night,” 

“Firstly, this one is flattered you know even a little about Ajda’s homeland. Secondly, deserts are as arid as a highborn spinster’s womanhood. If the south of Skyrim is tolerably snowy, unpleasantly icy, but damnably _wet_, how much more the north?"

Ralof threw his head back and laughed. It came out as a bark but quickly turned fuller, coming from deep in his belly. This one found she quite liked hearing it, as it brought her memories of the drunken merriment she often overheard from inns where she purloined her dinner.

"I suppose you'd prefer Imperial territory, then. I hear Solitude’s quite lovely this time of year,” 

“And fall straight into the hands of Empire? The same Empire in league with the Aldmeri Dominion? Disgusting. Slaughtering countless innocents over a deity in a foreign pantheon? No. Ajda draws the line there. Besides, this one hears Solitude is horridly crowded,” 

"If not the Stormcloaks and if not the Legion either, whose side are you on, then?"

"The side that does not kill as many people, this one supposes. This one does not venture into villages often, but it is plain to see how many live in fear. Ajda has seen families and friends torn apart from this war. So many wounded, so many deaths,” 

“Aye, that we all have,"

"Also, this one thinks this whole conflict might be put into temporary truce anyway, what with the dragon, no? Well, a dragon. Who knows how many more there are,"

"More dragons. Shor banish the thought," Ralof grimaced. "If there's anyone who'd have a wealth of information about dragons, it would be Jarl Ulfric,"

"A scholar and a Jarl? Admirable,"

"I wouldn’t really call the man a scholar,” Ralof chuckled. “Stories say Jarl Ulfric once trained under the Greybeards to learn the _thu’um_—releasing power through shouts spoken in the tongue of dragons. He should know about this whole... thing,” 

“And the Empire will definitely get involved as well,” 

“Hah! They’d be idiots not to. Stormcloak lives weren’t the only ones lost in Helgen. Hey, call me borderline mental, but if the dragon turns into a much bigger problem than it is right now, maybe we could set this whole war aside for a good enough time. By Ysmir, if we’ll have to end up fighting dragons, I wouldn’t mind fighting alongside a son or daughter of Skyrim allied under the Empire as long as they’ll have my back too,”

“Moons be willing,” this one breathed.

“Moons be willing indeed.” 

This one thought with relief that her secret wish of seeing both factions allied or destroyed for the sake of Skyrim’s peace was shared—and by a soldier, no less. Playing war was not a thing this one would be caught dead doing, not when the people and the land itself suffered under its machinations. Roads crawled with bandits, deserters, and the odd crooked soldier, the best hunting grounds were laid waste by filth from encampments and skirmishes, and prices were too steep for this one to trade in her hunts' rewards for decent food and supplies. Worst of all, too many lives were lost—ones this one had once called friends. Ralof’s confession, as blithe as it was, was comforting. 

They passed a lake that was as clear as the finest cut crystals, and just beyond that was a rushing river that where a little town nestled cozily by. The landscape was absolutely breathtaking that this one regretted not venturing beyond the gloomy and misty borders of Falkreath so soon.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me. We’re almost to Riverwood. Have you ever been here before?” Ralof asked all of a sudden.

“No. Though after seeing it, Ajda wishes she could have long ago. It is beautiful,”

“Aye, that it is. Lived here all my life until I was old enough to fight under Ulfric’s banner. I have a sister, Gerdur. She runs the mill with her husband Hod and her son Frodnar. If you’re ever in need of anything, I’m sure she’ll welcome you into her home,”

“That is quite relieving to hear. Ajda gives you and your family her deepest thanks,”

The Nord waved her off amiably. “Ah, and remember, this isn't Stormcloak territory. If we're ahead of the news from Helgen we should be fine as long as we don't do anything stupid,"

"Believe Ajda when she says she has exceeded her stupidity quota for the day,"

"Normally I wouldn’t trust the words of a cat, but you’ve proven yourself I suppose. Anyway, if we run into any Imperials, just let me do the talking, all right?"

"Ajda is sure they would be thoroughly charmed,"

"They'd be more likely to fawn over the little kitten by my side,”

“Call Ajda that damned name again, you will be lucky to wake up with a single possession to your name by the morrow,”

Ralof merely shot her a challenging smirk and spoke no more. This one cursed the silver tongues and disarming cheer of Nords. Fortunately, Riverwood was just a few hundred paces away and her companion darted towards the town as if aided by the winds of Khenarthi. This one had to suppress a fond sigh to save her breath. Either he was too eager to keep hidden from any Imperials patrolling about or the poor man dearly missed his home.

Ralof brought this one along to the lumber mill where they finally met Gerdur. He and his sister embraced quickly and this one turned her gaze away when she saw tears well in the corners of the woman's eyes.

"Brother! Mara's mercy, it's so good to see you! We thought you would be halfway to Haafingar by now after Ulfric's been captured. Is it even safe for you to be here? Are you hurt? What's happened? And who's this? One of your comrades?"

This one's head spun from the sister's rapid-fire questions while the brother merely clasped her hands in attempt to calm her down. 

"Not a comrade yet, but a friend," Ralof said proudly. "I owe her my life, in fact,"

This one felt her tail swish in embarrassment when Gerdur appraised her. Ralof was a ruggedly decent-looking man, the kind one would expect any ruggedly decent-looking Nord to be, but his sister was a handsome woman. Her mouth and brow were strong, set almost severely on her face from age and hard labor, but at the corners of her eyes and lips were deep laugh lines that this one could not help but find pleasant to look at. 

Ralof requested they speak privately and bade them wait in Gerdur's home. He then ushered this one away from the mill and towards the town smithy where a large man—another Nord, definitely—hammered away on an anvil. The muscles in his arms bulged as he dealt blow after powerful blow on the searing hot steel. For the hundredth time in her life, this one wondered how Nord grew into their sizes and strength despite their aversion for milk. 

"Alvor! It's Ralof!"

The blacksmith's head snapped up and his mouth set into a grim line. He lumbered towards this one’s companion and beheld him coldly.

“What brings you back here?” was all he said by way of greetings.

“I bring news of Hadvar from Helgen.” 

At the name, the blacksmith’s expression morphed into one of deep worry. “Hadvar? You’ve seen him? How fares my nephew?”

“Alive and well, Alvor. Worry not. My friend here,” he said, clapping this one on her shoulder—by the Moons, this one should check if the oaf dislocated it, “saved our lives. Still, there are a few things of great importance that you must know. Please, come with us to Gerdur's home. Bring Sigrid too. She deserves to hear the news as much as you."

The two families plus one Khajiit gathered in the house, looking equally anxious and grim, but no one had a look as dark as Ralof. He spoke of the tragedy of Helgen, explicitly recounting all the ghastly details—the humongous black dragon, the fire, the panic, the deaths. This one's hands trembled and her stomach turned at the memories of the unnamed Nord woman's bone and sinew coming apart under her axe, the fear that made this one’s heart beat so fast it could have blown up at any moment, and the deep blood-red of the dragon’s eyes that stared into her very heart and soul. Ajda whimpered quietly but Ralof went on without so much as a pause.

The meeting went on for over an hour. This one admired Ralof’s patience with the seemingly endless questions and the scathing remarks by each family against the other—most of which revolved around the Imperial-Stormcloak conflict. It was only by the grace of S’rendarr that neither side came to blows. This one had half a mind to unsheathe her claws and growl them all into silence but for the sake of polite company and having a roof over her head for the night, this one willed herself to behave. 

The last stretch of this one's patience paid off when finally, finally, the grown-ups finished talking and offered this one a hot meal and a warm bed for the night. Ajda was all too glad to accept, and had even presented both families the finest of her furs and the sturdiest of her leathers from her pack. Alvor was quick to offer this one free reign of his smithy after humming appreciatively over the quality of the leathers and Gerdur handed this one extra crème treats during dessert while sharing her amusement over the Khajiiti obsession with sweets. This one's chest felt pleasantly warm from their hospitality. 

Hadvar arrived much later in the evening and the whole of Riverwood was alight with activity—partly in welcoming the return of their fellow townsmen and partly in anxiety over the news of the dragon. The Sleeping Giant Inn was so packed that this one felt sympathetic to the couple running the place. Delphine especially. The poor woman looked like she had swallowed a lemon. 

The town surprisingly welcomed Ajda with as much grace as hospitality demanded, besides a few snide remarks on this one being an outsider. By the end of the customary introductions, this one was horrendously embarrassed. Ralof had practically sang this one praises while Hadvar was wonderfully warm in conversation. A few hours after suppertime, when the townsfolk trickled out of the local inn, Ajda found herself a cozy spot on the mill's roof to perch on with her trusty pipe for company. While this one had the privilege of introducing herself to the town residents, it had taken her more than three tries to put the correct name to each face. Never had this one been in a closed space with such a large crowd before. By the Moons, were the people loud despite the rather grim circumstances. 

This one blew out a lungful of smoke that floated idly into the air while she watched the aurora illuminate the dark arches of the barrow. Save for the wind, the thrumming nocturnal ambience that comforted and often lulled this one into a peaceful slumber was absent. All was eerily still, as if the world waited for something with bated breath. It unsettled this one so; this one’s fur had never been raised for this long. 

“Ajda!” Hadvar called from below her. “Gerdur wouldn’t be too pleased with you idling about on her property,” 

Ajda was thoroughly confused. This one sat on the roof of where the lumber was kept, not Gerdur’s home, and she expressed such to the man below her.

“Gerdur owns the mill, friend. She owns this part of the land and its assets, which include that roof you’re on,”

This one’s ears drooped. The spot was quite cozy, but not wanting any more trouble, this one leaped onto the ground on all fours. This one noticed Hadvar paying an uncomfortable amount of attention to her legs and to her uncovered fur.

"I've never seen Khajiit with your kind of legs," the Nord remarked. “And your fur,”

"Understandably so. Not many of Ajda's furstock would find themselves in the far north of Tamriel,"

"Furstock?"

"Ajda is Suthay-raht. Unlike our common Cathay kin you often see travelling around these parts, this one hails from the deep jungles in southern Elsweyr. The black fur help this one blend in the darkness when this one hunts or flees. As for the legs, well, they make for expert climbing, if this one says so herself."

Despite Hadvar's interest—he lent this one his full attention, which this one much appreciated—a yawn broke free from his mouth. This one and her present companion walked towards Gerdur's home, as she and Ralof both insisted this one spend the night there. Hospitable folk, Nords were, if a bit overly cautious with those outside of their race. Still, this one commended them for holding guest right sacred.

That was just one of many Nordic quirks that surprised this one; another was how people of the north compartmentalized sentiments—how they felt both rage and respect towards a person without it clouding their emotions too much. Ajda had listened to Ralof and Hadvar speak of each other, and while they resented what the other fought for, what bound them to civility was a deep mutual respect. This one never knew Nords can dispose of grudges as easily as this one can dispose of cadavers, but then again, this one’s interactions with Skyrim’s natives prior to today were limited.

“If Sven must travel to Whiterun call for aid, who shall accompany him as witness, hmm?” this one asked. 

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t,” Hadvar said, looking quite apologetic. “I must leave for Solitude at dawn, and I suppose Ralof would head for Windhelm as well. Looks like the responsibility falls on you,” 

S’rendarr’s mercy, and here this one thought she would put all this dragon business behind her for the better. Still, it would not do to leave the good people of this village to the destruction of dragon fire. 

“Ajda will see it done.” this one said with a small bow. Moons be willing, the journey to the hold's capital would not be so tedious. 

  


* * *

  


Tirdas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E201  
6:05 AM

Dawn passed and Ajda was dangerously close to sticking her claws into her bard companion's throat. Not only was Sven late by nearly an hour, the concept of silence was apparently as foreign to him as Altmeri cuisine. Camilla Valerius this, Camilla Valerius that was all that spilled from his accursed mouth. Sheggorath’s balls, what this one would give to gag the _wafiit_.

“You know, maybe this whole dragon business might blow over if we just leave it alone. Then again, if some idiot would actually come round and kill the beast, I’m not passing up an opportunity to meet the sod and gift them with the finest song I’d ever sing. With any luck, my memory'd live on through that,"

"That is a noble venture, but Ajda does not believe mere men, Khajiit, Saxhleel, and Mer could possibly slay such a thing, so you may rest your voice for... let us say... _ever_, yes?"

Sven let out a hearty laugh that this one felt was loud enough for a pack of wolves to descend upon them. Thankfully none did, or this one might have left Sven to fend off the beasts alone. 

"Looks like you're as ignorant as they come," the Nord said rather amiably which grated on this one’s nerves. "You've never heard of the dragon-slaying heroes of old? Now you're going to tell me you've never heard of the Dragonborn,"

"Yes, this one has heard of the Dragonborn,” Of course Ajda knew of the damned Dragonborn; this one lived in this land long enough to be familiar with Nordic customs and heritage—well, mostly from willing mouths of travelers and scholars; actual battle-hardened Nords often found her company and existence rather undesirable. 

“But what Ajda meant,” this one continued, “is that none can ever think to kill a dragon, much less fight them, without dying,” 

“Unless the bravest and strongest of us take up arms and—” 

“How does one kill a dragon, hmm? Where are its weakest spots? Where did they come from anyway? How often must they hunt? How intelligent are they? What weapons are most effective against them? How do we creatures of the ground bring down a creature of the air?"

This one’s only reply was silence. Sven looked equally dejected and aggravated but thankfully did not voice his thoughts out loud. Still, this one felt a little bad about dashing the poor Nord's delusions of glory and grandeur. 

“A hunter must know their hunt. A predator must know their prey. According to yourselves, the dragons have all but vanished thousands of years ago. There would be no one left alive to know how to hunt and kill one. And as far this one and the people of Helgen are concerned, we know nothing about dragons other than their proclivity for fire, blood, and destruction. Who then, is the hunter-predator and who is the prey, hmm?"

The bard weakly opened and closed his mouth. He appeared to mull over his next words until he settled on a question. “Who... who else survived Helgen?” 

This one felt a pang of sorrow in her chest. “Not many else. Only the soldiers—possibly all injured—and one healer, only to this one's knowledge.”

Sven stared off pensively into the distance. The walk to Whiterun continued in blessed silence, which worked to this one’s favor, as this one had been robbed of words upon beholding the view of the capitol from afar. 

Ajda had only heard of Whiterun's glory from the mouths of travelers, the occasional hunter, and locals from Falkreath and the Rift, but none had prepared this one for the sheer size of the plains. Mammoths walked freely. Mammoths with giants. The walled city with its palace towering high added a sense of grandeur to the landscape that Ajda felt oddly nostalgic for the lofty temples of her homeland. The itch to drop all this one's possessions and run across the grassy tundra where this one can snag a hare or fox between her teeth was nigh unbearable. 

"It's been a while since I've last been here," Sven piped up. "Not since that poncy, man-whoring milk-drinker Mikael arrived,"

“Sven, my friend,” this one groaned. “Please focus. We are here to inform the Jarl of our little lizard problem, yes?” 

Sven barked out a laugh. “Of course, of course. Though a word of warning, don’t let Mikael’s idiocy taint your image of us bards. Gives us all a bad name, that one,” 

“This Mikael gives bards a bad name and not your measly attempt to dishonor Faendal and trick Miss Valerius?”

Sven paled and slumped his shoulders. “I know, I know, we've gone through this already. It was beyond disgraceful of me. It's just... Camilla's special. She's intelligent, feisty, and beautiful. Can you really fault any man for sullying his honor to make her his?"

“Yes. Ajda is inexperienced in the ways of Nordic love and courtship but this one is sure no Nord man or woman would settle for anything less than a partner with... what is it you call it? Decency?"

Sven's eye twitched but he had enough wit to reign in a particularly violent reaction. He sighed. "You're... you're right. I guess Camilla's had enough of me and Faendal breathing down her neck and making her choose between us. It's all up to her in the end anyway. Though I hope she still picks me over that twiggy Elf."

Ajda snickered. This one had no luxury of being privy to such a riveting love triangle in a while. 

"What's so funny?"

"Ajda was thinking what a riot it would be if your beloved Camilla chooses the both of you,"

The look on Sven's face was worth meeting him in the first place. The poor man was terribly indignant, affronted, mortified, appalled, and every other similar word in between, that this one let out a rousing cackle at his expense. 

"If you cannot beat them, join them, no?" this one wheezed while elbowing her companion who looked like a pot boiling over. 

“Is there a problem, here?” interrupted a voice.

An armored man marched up towards this one and Sven. His pale gold cloak swished at his heels and his gloved hand lingered threateningly on the hilt of his sword. "Good day. Is this cat bothering you?" he said, casting a particularly rude glance at this one. 

Rather than rising to the guard's bait, this one merely grinned cheerily and waved hello. This one was glad to see Sven appear mildly amused just for a moment before his voice dropped into a serious tone.

"No, no trouble at all with, sir. Just passing through with my friend here," the bard said. "We've come on behalf of Riverwood to warn the Jarl about the dragon and to call for aid. We're left unguarded, you see, and if the dragon attacks again, we'll be razed to the ground. As for my friend here—"

"—Khajiit has come from Helgen. This one brings news of the dragon's destruction and possible current location,"

The guard regarded this one and Sven with suspicion despite the urgency of our concerns. "And you expect me to believe that? Ain’t everyday a fool struts in with a cat calling it ‘friend’,"

Ajda’s fur bristled and she surreptitiously unsheathed her claws. The guard’s throat was protected by a high leather collar but with the right amount of force after pouncing from a certain distance—

“I beg your pardon?” Sven huffed indignantly, raising his voice and drawing himself to his full height, which was an impressive half-a-head taller than the rude guard’s. A few other guards paused in their guardly duties at the noise. “You'd have to have dirt in your ears to have not heard a damn word we said. To reiterate, we come on behalf of Gerdur and Alvor of Riverwood. We request passage through the gates to seek an audience with the Jarl to call for aid against the threat of a dragon burning our village to the ground. Hinder us from our task and the blood of entire families—your Jarl’s people, might I add—will be solely on your hands. Now, either let us through or find us someone who isn’t sorely lacking in wits, or by Shor, simple common sense!” 

The guard's heavy, angered breathing was like a symphony to this one's ears. His next words, however...

“You’d do well to hold your tongue, kinsman. But fine. I’ll let you in. The cat goes no further, however,” 

“By the gods, you really do have dirt in your ears,” Sven scoffed. “That or you’re more of a simpleton that I first thought. My friend had been in Helgen when the damned dragon attacked! That sort of information needs to be relayed to the Jarl by none other than the witness herself!” 

The guard squinted and gripped his sword but a gauntleted hand on his shoulder stayed his hand. Another guard, older and scarred, sent the other a warning glare. 

“I apologize on behalf of my subordinate,” the older guard addressed this one, his voice sounding like rock dragged on gravel. “But your friend here’s right. That information’s valuable to the Jarl and his court. Come, we’ll escort you, but if you’re gonna cause any trouble, don’t bother trollshitting your way out of jail time.”

This one sighed in relief. Finally, someone with sense! Sven hurried to catch up with the older guard’s strides with this one by his side. We passed through the city guard outpost where a handful of other armored men in Whiterun colors sent them stares ranging from neutral to curious to suspicious to downright hostile—of which Ajda took the brunt of. Whiterun was even more grand up close, with its noble houses standing tall over the homes and shops of the common folk—but not as beautiful as this one’s home in the forests of Tenmar, of course. 

Still, Ajda wished she was blessed with an extra pair of eyes to take in every single detail behind the city walls. This one’s people were not exactly welcome inside the hold capitals and the little towns in between, so this one thought it prudent to commit her experience to memory. 

“Dragonsreach. Just as gorgeous as I remember,” Sven breathed. “Ah, the Bannered Mare, the finest tavern and inn this side of the hold. Makes me want to pack up and move in to this city... almost,” 

“If you have the time later, might you be willing to accompany this one around? Ajda would like to go sightseeing for a bit. That is, if this one is permitted to stay for a bit longer,” 

“Sure! See it as thanks for stopping me from delivering that stupid letter. Hey, if anyone gives you trouble ‘round Riverwood, I'll set them straight, don't worry,"

Oh, Sven. A good man with a good heart—if only his brains worked just as well. "Many thanks, friend." this one nodded.

This one and her companion marched up the steps to Dragonsreach, with minimal fuss. People in noble livery came and went, some of them striding swiftly, businesslike, and some strutting about like pheasants in spring. Ajda and Sven entered the Jarl’s hall and this one had never thought Nordic architecture would cause her to gasp at its beauty, until now. The interior was huge enough to house two mammoths and one giant, and long enough for a Senche-raht to pounce thrice to clear the distance from the doors to the throne. 

This one now understood a why these halls were called longhouses. 

“I’ve always dreamed of playing for a Jarl in their hall,” Sven whispered. “Someday soon...” 

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” a sharp voice cut through the air. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.” 

An armored Mormer—Dunmer woman marched over to this one and her companion and held a sword to our chests. 

“We’re from Riverwood,” Sven said, his voice surprisingly even despite the bead of sweat that trailed down his temple. “Our town is in danger,” 

The Dunmer gave this one and Sven a calculating once-over. “As housecarl, I deal with all the dangers that threaten the Jarl and his people. You have my attention. Explain yourselves,” 

“Helgen is gone,” this one said, willing her voice to be as even as her companion’s. “Razed to the ground by the dragon. You will ensure Riverwood does not suffer the same fate, yes?” 

“I suppose that information's why the guards let the both of you in. Approach, the both of you. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally.” 

Sven gave this one a half-smile, one that eased her nerves. Still, Ajda sought to stand as far away from the hostile housecarl as possible. 

  


* * *

  


Tirdas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E201  
2:35 PM

Khajiit had never met a Jarl before, but Jarl Balgruuf gave this one the best possible impression of what a Jarl was and should be. He appeared to care much for his people, and going by how his own servants performed their duties and carried themselves with pride, the Jarl was a just and fair ruler as well. Ajda fancied herself spiriting him away to Elsweyr just for him to give the local rulers a few lessons on governing effectively. 

Jarl Balgruuf welcomed this one and Sven as equals, as he seemed to hold no prejudice against this one’s race. He even gifted this one and her companion gear from his personal armory after expressing gratitude for our ‘initiative’: a simple silver ring with a vitality enchantment for Sven and a thin fur cloak that felt like a pleasant, warm embrace for this one. ‘Enchanted to keep the cold out,’ the wiry steward had said. Ajda would never have imagined such a thing ever happening. What was more, the Jarl thought this one suitable for a certain task that he and his court mage needed done—one that involved retrieving a stone tablet that was said to be as ancient as the days of the Dragon War. To say this one was excited was a bit of an understatement. 

“Condescending chap, wasn’t he?” Sven said through a wrinkled nose as he and this one idled around the Wind District. 

“Ajda has met a few mages before—the scholarly type. They just are... like that,”

“I can never understand why any self-respecting Nord would dabble in magic of all things. More trouble than it’s worth, I tell you. Well, except for healing and enchanting I suppose. Faendal had one of his bows enchanted with a fire spell or something long ago. The buffoon almost set the mill ablaze. Some night, that was. You know what, maybe magic wouldn't be too bad at times; I’d probably give my own mother away for a chance to learn a few healing spells; singing for too long can be Oblivion on my throat...”

And you talking for too long can be Oblivion on anyone’s ears, Ajda thought. “Might this one interrupt in favor of a more pressing matter? How does this one get to Bleak Falls Barrow, hmm?” 

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to go there right away, are you?”

“The Jarl and the mage did seem to be in quite a hurry, yes?”

“At least rest awhile and stock some supplies. I promised to give you a tour of this marvelous city, remember? Oh, and folks might trade in some good coin for your wares,” 

This one chuckled. “This one cannot argue with that,”

Sven beamed and guided this one towards the marketplace. “Then come on. There’s this elf I know who hunts for his trade just like you; sells some decent weapons and hunting supplies in the Drunken Huntsman. Oh, wait till you hear how he and his brother came up with the name. It’s a real knee-slapper, I tell you—” 

  


* * *

  


Tirdas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E201  
8:10 PM

By the time Ajda’s tour guide called it a day, this one was able to name nearly half the population in Whiterun—even the guards—to their third cousins twice removed. The common folk were refreshingly (and surprisingly) friendly and easy-going, save for a few who eyed this one with thinly-veiled distrust and hostility. This one was not about to let such prejudice stroke her fur the opposite way; this one had lived with worse. 

As expected of the metropolitan settlement, prices were steep but Ajda did manage to haggle for some decent gear. Sven had clapped this one on the back for seeing through too many shifty deals, especially from the Aqomer—the Breton—at the general goods store. This one scoffed. As if any self-respecting Khajiit would be out-haggled and outsmarted. 

"How're you liking Whiterun so far?" Sven asked while plopping down next to this one. Ajda and Sven had spent the whole day exploring the city and that brought weariness to this one's bones. Stalking prey for days was much less harrying. 

“Quite a beautiful city. Very bright and welcoming," this one said with a smile. And it was true. The sun shone warmly on the city in the plains, a wonderfully welcome change from the shady green forests of Falkreath and the fiery gold and orange woods of the Rift. Ah, the Rift. This one missed it sometimes. 

“You know,” Sven spoke, his brows furrowed. “this whole thing seems a lot fishy to me. The Jarl giving you a task out of the blue, I mean. What did he mean by ‘someone of your particular talents’, anyway? You obviously haven’t been to Whiterun before so what gives with the familiarity?”

Ajda hummed. “Ajda believes this one’s exploits around Falkreath had reached the ears of the Jarl of Whiterun at one point, as implausible as that sounds. Eh, that is what this one finds the most likely,” 

“Exploits?”

“Wild game is not the only thing this one hunts for coin,”

Sven nodded understandingly. "I guess you'd have to get your hands a little dirty now and then. Is it hard, living in the wilds?"

"Not at all, once one gets used to it. Why? Do you see yourself as a wild man like this one?"

"No thank you, I'm quite content living by a nice warm hearth with nice warm food, nice warm beds—"

"With a nice warm body laying next to you, yes?"

"That would be the last thing a lady would say," Sven chortled. 

"Eh, Ajda is no lady. Anyway, returning to the matter at hand, whatever the Jarl knows about this one is not of this one’s concern, really. Maybe he sees Ajda as any Nord would see a Khajiit: wily, thieving, possibly a criminal, and expendable. Whatever this task holds, Ajda is sure this one would survive. This one has gone through worse. Besides, Ajda would like to stay in Whiterun for a little longer and that cannot happen if this one is dead,"

"Some people wouldn't be too happy with you inside the walls," Sven shrugged. "There's a reason why Khajiit aren't allowed inside,"

"Ah yes, our penchant for... liberating possessions from their unworthy owners. The good people of Whiterun need not fear for their coin around Ajda. Thievery is not this one’s trade,” _yet_ was the unspoken key word but no one needed to know that.

“Hah! By the Eight, if only the rest of your kind were more like you!” Sven guffawed, much to this one’s annoyance. The Nord meant well but his words bit a little too hard for comfort, not that this one was too offended. Should not bards be more eloquent with their language? 

By the mercy of Mara, this one was given a moment of respite from the bard’s incessant chattering when a tall and wiry flaxen-haired man, with wrists as thin as bird’s legs, entered the inn. 

“Mikael,” Sven growled, tightening his grip on his flagon. This one waited in vain for it to crack or warp under pressure. 

The man in question threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Sven! Dibella’s tits, it’s really you!”

“Ajda will take her leave now.” this one said, and slunk out of sight.

Sven did not appear to hear this one, which this one was quite thankful for. The bards may battle through sonnets and songs for all this one cared. Bards were quite a boring lot during confrontations—too much flowery prose, not nearly enough insults. 

"I don't have much of a reputation in Skyrim yet, but I'm working on that, one sweet lady at a time—" the bard named Mikael drawled, which made this one roll her eyes so violently it almost hurt. Suddenly Sven's hatred for the other bard did not seem so irrational.

This one procured a cozy spot farthest from the bards' heated soliloquies and pulled out a map of the Bleak Falls Barrow interior that Farengar had graciously given. The parchment was old enough to have been held by this one's great-great grandmother with the way it felt and smelled. Why the mage was so blasé with parting with this kind of artefact was beyond this one. Still, it served its purpose wonderfully. There were marks on booby traps, treasure caches, and several words of warning that were scratched violently onto the surface of the parchment and underlined twice.

The more Ajda examined the map and the more this one thought about the task at hand, the more excited this one became. This one had robbed graves and looted from corpses before—it came with certain jobs after all—but scouring through an ancient dungeon would make for a damn fine tale by the campfire if this one were to stumble upon her kin or any one of her fellow hunters that roamed Falkreath. 

“Saadia! Wake up, dear!” 

“Yes, mum!”

One of the barmaids approached this one with an air of apprehension. She was a Redguard, and a fair vision at that, with earth-brown skin, dainty, angular features, slim, shapely shoulders, and lips that curved like a Colovian bow. Jagged scars ran across one side of her face, further enhancing her allure. So this was the 'mysterious beauty' in the inn that Sven chirped about for a good half-hour. Saadia. This one did not know what the name meant, but it sounded lovely on the tongue. 

“Need a drink?” the woman asked and her voice was wonderful to hear—deep, sultry, and flowed over each phoneme like honey. Ajda wondered if the woman was raised among nobility.

"Do you have anything that could be kept for... let us say... a week?”

“We have some smoked venison and salmon, and beef—both spiced and salted,” 

“This one will take the venison please—flank cuts—and some bread, cheese, and ale. A week's worth of a soldier's ration, please. Ah, yes, might you be so kind to have them prepared by the morrow? This one will leave a little before dawn,”

“Very well. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you." This one deposited the exact change onto the barmaid's waiting hand, and returned her attention to the map. Apparently, Skyrim had a terrible pest problem in the form of restless dead. _'Dra-uger'_, this one remembered Ralof call them. This one did not fancy being mauled to death by ancient Nords too stubborn to die.

"Sven?" this one called. The man in question was still busy shaking fists at the other bard. Why did they not brawl or drink or fuck as Nords did instead? This was getting tedious. This one wondered if there were any mercenaries around here who were better, more level-headed companions to bring along in this wizardly, potentially trauma-inducing quest. This one hoped she would not be undertaking this alone.


	3. Dungeons and Draugrs

Middas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E201  
4:25 AM

Azurah’s darkest dawn, this one had no choice but to undertake the damned wizard’s task alone. This one had scoured though the city the night before, looking for willing companions but all effort was in vain. None of the mercenaries idling about the city were interested in delving into an ancient tomb, and one had even charged double after hearing the rest of this one's 'hair-brained plan'. Ah well, Ajda could not be too mad. Anyone would find trekking up a mountain tedious on a good day. 

The cold seemed more of an afterthought to this one, thanks to the Jarl’s gift (this one sent a prayer to Mara for his good health and prosperity). 

Despite the bitter winds and the snow crunching and squeaking under this one’s feet, the climb and the occasional wolf and bandit attack were well worth seeing the great arches of the barrow. This one has seen the exterior structures of Nordic tombs before, but none struck an ominous presence as Bleak Falls’ Barrow. Ajda was correct in presuming that whatever ancient king or queen that was buried underneath the weathered rock had no small amount of wealth she could pilfer. The dead needed gold as much as a Khajiit needed snow down their trousers.

The only downside was the presence of the undead. Ajda had never seen such miserable creatures, shambling and crumbling and doomed to never rest until the end of times. Snuffing out what was left of their life after knowing how long the poor souls have suffered was somehow... melancholic. This one had lost track of how many prayers she had muttered for them as she shot arrows into their necks and eye-sockets. May their souls find respite in _‘Soven-guard’_. 

Hours felt like minutes and seconds felt like days in the accursed tomb. Never before had this one felt such a oppressing atmosphere before. This one vowed to take a bath to end all baths when (or if) she managed to get out of here. This one doubted the fetid, stale stench of dust, decay, and death would truly leave this one's fur. Still, this one's spelunking adventure was more exciting than initially thought. 

Arriving at a cavernous chamber where natural light filtered in though gaps in the rock above after hours of rooting, tooting, looting and shooting was a relief. This one checked and rechecked the map and yes, this was the resting place of the curious Dragonstone.

“Proceed with caution. Mind the guardian of the ‘word wall’.” this one read aloud from the map. The words were underlined twice and written above the drawing of the crypt. This one sighed. If there was one thing this one knew about ancient curses and the like, it was that whoever was doomed to be a 'guardian' of something was going to be a pain in the behind. This one carefully approached the crypt, waiting for the undead to pop out shrieking and growling with its desiccated limbs all akimbo. 

Nothing happened. 

Ajda tilted her head in confusion. Was this not the part when this one and the guardian of the artifact go toe to toe in a battle of might as a climax to this quest? This one tried knocking on the crypt, scratching new markings on the strange 'word wall’, and shattering an ancient urn upon the stone floor. 

Still nothing.

This one shrugged. There was no other way to go than to abandon all sense of self-preservation and force the crypt open, since there was no sign of an archaic-looking stone tablet inside the chests and urns. Plumes of dust and pulverized skin assaulted this one's poor nose, making this one almost lose her grip on the stone slab. A _'dra-uger'_ decked in barbaric-looking armor lay peacefully inside. Its arms were crossed over its chest and in the grip of its bony fingers was an ivory tablet. 

This one's tail swished in delight. This one's nimble hands itched to pry the stone out of the corpse's possession, but this one was nothing if not careful. This one was far from eager for a fight and luckily this one had procured a sturdy club from one of the bandits she had shot down. This one hefted it above her head and smashed it down onto the corpse’s dry skull, sending bits of bone flying in every direction. 

The corpse let out a strangled growl that ended just as suddenly. Ajda grabbed the slab along with all the loot this one could carry, and left the musty, dusty, crusty mausoleum behind.

  


* * *

  
Middas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E201  
6:30 PM

Walking through the gates of Riverwood after dodging mudcrabs and wolves around the Lake Ilinalta was enough for this one to smile through this one's steadily-growing fatigue. Time had not seemed to matter inside the ancient tomb, which had had this one plow through the underground maze without food or rest. Hunger and the need for the usual cat nap were overridden by fear, paranoia, and the oppressing awareness of being far, far away from the open wilds and being practically stranded deep under mountains of rock. Ajda had heard of an ancient Mer race that had built grand underground cities. How in the Divines’ wondrous earth could they have stood living in such conditions were beyond this one. 

“Halt!” a voice called. This one did not know whether to groan or be relieved at the owner. A soldier dressed in Whiterun colors strode forth. Behind him patrolled other soldiers in similar attire. This one thanked 

“State your business,” he intoned brusquely. 

“Just a visitor in dire need of medical attention, twelve hours of sleep, and a warm meal passing through, sir,” this one said placatingly, despite her exhaustion. This one was close to collapsing in the middle of the road when this one caught the sights of Frodnar and Dorthe, both of whom looked quite worried.

"Miss Khajiit!"

"Miss Ajda!"

"Are you alright?"

"What happened? Are we under attack?"

This one looked to them in confusion until realization over the state of this one's raiment and health. This one's leather armor was practically torn to shreds and coated with a fine layer of ancient skin and bone dust. Stray webbing and dried blood—not Ajda's blood, but the wolves', thank the Moons—stuck to this one's once pristine fur. This one gave herself a once-over and shrugged. Ajda had had worse before, and she expressed such to the little ones. 

"Ajda had just finished an errand, that is all. And what are you two doing out so late? Will not your mothers be worried?”

Frodnar frowned and not-so-surreptitiously avoided this one’s question. "Errand? You look like you barely got through a fight alive,” 

“That was the errand,” this one replied wearily. For some reason the children were starting to get a little blurry. Dark spots filled this one’s vision and... Oh. oh, dear...

  


* * *

  
Turdas, 20th of Last Seed, 4E201  
7:10 AM

This one awoke to the smell of something delicious.

Before this one could act upon more base instincts, that is, devouring the source of the tantalizing scent with little regard for table manners, there was the matter of this one being tucked cozily under unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar room. 

“Guh,” this one croaked. 

“Hey, you,” said a voice. Hod, Gerdur's kindly-looking husband, grabbed a chair and plopped himself down beside this one. He looked quite relieved for some reason. “You’re finally awake,” 

“Did Ajda faint?”

“That you did. Frodnar and Dorthe, bless their hearts, kicked up a mean fuss over you. It’s good that they did; if it weren’t for your breathing, we would’ve thought you dead. You were knocked out stiff. Early symptoms of rockjoint. Seen a few good men kick the bucket because of it. You're damn lucky to be alive,” 

"Rockjoint?" This one winced. "Not again,"

"Aye. You can thank Lucan for the cure disease potio—wait, what do you mean again?"

"Ah, this one is luckier it was not witbane. Terrible, that. This one would never recommend that disease even to this one's worst enemy,"

"Shor's bones, cat, I've half a mind to boot your diseased furry behind out of this house," Hod laughed. 

This one chuckled along. "If you must but Ajda assures you that this one is disease-free at the moment. Still, Skyrim is... not at all friendly to this one's health and overall well-being,"

"I could imagine. Well, Gerdur fixed you up a meal. You’d feel much better with something warm in your belly.” 

This one graciously thanked her host, hauled herself out of bed and hobbled over to the dining table. Hod made no comment when this one gulped down the chicken stew like it was air and nibbled on a sweetroll. Instead, he excused himself and exited his home, muttering about Sven probably having slacked off while he was away.

Left alone in the house and having cleaned up after herself, what was this one to do but explore? The house was probably the coziest and homiest abode this one ever had the pleasure of staying in. Mementos were perched and hung on every available surface—animal heads from past hunts, drinking horns, decorative urns, Frodnar's paintings of soldiers and dragons. The bar by the kitchen was well-stocked and with no shortage of booze and cheese. 

This one made herself comfortable on the floor before the fire. It was a lovely home. A lovely home indeed. Ajda clutched her chest when something gnawed inside. 

Longing. 

This one sighed. It has been far too long since this one has had a place to call home. Sometimes this one missed the arid sands and humid jungles of Elsweyr, and Khenarthi’s Roost was a long way from here. This one wondered how her family was doing. Did _fado_ and _ahnurr_ finally retire or did they still hunt and gallivant around Elsweyr adventuring to their hearts' content? The last letter this one received from them was nearly a year ago, back when this one was a caravan guard in Cyrodiil, detailing their latest expedition in an ancient ruin somewhere within the borders of Corinth. _Fado_ and _ahnurr_ had taken it upon themselves to become adventurers instead of hunters. Ajda had found it ridiculous at first when she had read their letter. Ah well, they were not yet into their middle-age. They should enjoy their youth while it still lasted.

Ajda had tried sending them a few letters over the past months, but none came in return. This one supposed border security from the damned war was the reason. This one could not risk getting caught crossing to Cyrodiil just to send some letters. Who knew how a Khajiit, one not under the esteemed Ri'saad's employ, would be treated by the border guard. 

This one fished out her journal from her satchel and whiled the time away detailing the absolute _skooma trip_ that this one had experienced the past few days. Dragons, dungeons, jarl’s palaces, making friends—what a time to be alive. 

“Miss Khajiit?” called a voice from the door. Frodar entered and approached cautiously. He looked this one up and down, his eyes shining brightly with unbridled curiosity. This one surmised the boy had never seen a Khajiit before, or at least had and the novelty of meeting one was still fresh. 

“Yes, child? What do you need?” 

“Um... Ma told me to check up on you. So... are you doing alright?” 

This one smiled. “Never better. This one cannot thank you and your family enough for your hospitality. It is quite humbling,” 

Frodnar scrunched his nose adorably. “You talk funny,” 

“It is called being polite among Khajiit. Khajiit do not refer to ourselves as ‘I’ unless we have earned it,” 

“Oh, like Uncle Ralof saying a man can’t call himself a warrior without proving his worth first?” 

“Huh. An astute analogy. This one supposes that is the closest way to explain it. You are quite bright, child,”

Frodnar swelled with pride. “You know, I was planning on pranking you if ever you got on my bad side, but I guess you’re alright. Wanna start over? I’m Frodnar Hodsson of Riverwood,” he pushed out an open hand.

This one shook his little hand firmly. “This one is Ajda, daughter of Naiima, of Khenarthi’s Roost. A delight to meet you. You mentioned pranks, yes?” 

The child's eyes glinted and he nodded eagerly, his mouth split into a wide grin. 

“Mischief is an art to us Khajiit—an art gifted by Fadomai herself and passed on to Azurah and her kittens. It is not everyday this one gets to meet a budding adept. That thing you did yesterday—this one heard your father mention it—glueing the cow's udder's shut, now that was inspired,"

Frodnar puffed out his chest. "Hah! Well there’s more where that came from! Just you wait, I’ll be the greatest prankster this hold’s ever seen!” 

Ajda chuckled. “This one has no doubt about that. Just ensure you do not hurt anyone too grievously. Now go and raise Oblivion."

The boy giggled manically and exited the house, no doubt off to make his poor parents consider giving him up for adoption. This one put away her journal and set out to Whiterun. This one doubted the jarl was a patient man but nevertheless, this one's delivery was a tad overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'agra translations:
> 
> _Fado_ \- mother/mom  
_Ahnurr_ \- father/dad


	4. And So the Wheel Turns

Turdas, 20th of Last Seed, 4E201  
3:50 PM

Dragons.

Ajda has had _enough_ of dragons.

Death and damnation upon those overgrown flying geckos.

This one had arrived in Whiterun, happy that this one was to earn a decent reward from the little dungeon-delving stunt yesterday. This one had just unceremoniously dropped the blasted Dragonstone onto the infuriating wizard’s lap when the jarl’s housecarl came bursting in bellowing about a dragon attacking some watchtower. This one had hoped to slip away in the midst of the panic but both jarl and housecarl locked their gazes into this one. All thought of turning tail was dashed when Jarl Balgruuf pleaded with this one to help defend the capital. 

This one could not have refused the old jarl even if she wanted to. A blight on him and his sense of duty and his persuasiveness! This one should not have stayed in Skyrim for this long because now the damned Nords have corrupted Ajda into adapting their battle-crazed sense of ‘honor’! 

Ajda gazed up at the grey sky, praying that the dragon had left for good. The Western Watchtower looked disturbingly similar to the crumbling, flaming towers of Helgen and it took all of this one’s willpower to not burst into tears at the memory. A guard spared this one a glance and a look of understanding passed between us. His throat bobbed as he took a nervous gulp and his hands shook when he nocked an arrow into his bow. He was young, barely into his twenties. This one hoped he would live to see his next year. Until then, Divines protect and preserve us all.

“Into the tower! Quickly! It’s not safe!” yelled a man. He limped out of the watchtower ruin and nearly fell over the crumbling stones. He winced and clutched his bleeding arm. "The dragon carried Hroki and Tor away! We couldn't do anythi—oh no. Merciful Divines, no!"

"The dragon! It's back!"

Ajda squinted against the billowing smoke. The dragon's distinctive silhouette from the nearby mountains grew ever larger as it glided towards us.

"Make every arrow count!" the jarl's housecarl barked. 

This one leaped onto a ledge that was free from the suffocating smoke and released arrow after arrow into the dragon's underbelly. The beast, dare this one say it, laughed. It perched on top of the watchtower ruins, beat its great wings, and roared at the sky.

"Akatosh save us!" the soldier boy whimpered. This one grabbed his arm and forced him under what was left of a stone bridge. 

"Brace yourself!" this one yelled.

_"YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

Flames hotter than a forge swept through the ground, laying waste to stones and men alike. Memories of Helgen assaulted Ajda—the fire, the screams, the utter helplessness of being trapped, the closeness to one's death. 

"Akatosh, Kynareth, Arkay, Mara, Talos..." the soldier boy chanted beside this one, shaking like a leaf. 

"Guardsman!” this one yelled over the sound of battle. “Guardsman!” 

He looked to this one, tears forming the corners of his eyes.

“This one will run to a ledge. Need a clear shot," this one said, holding up her bow. "Cover Ajda and Ajda will cover you. Once you reach the tower, fight with your comrades,"

"No! Wait! I—"

"You are afraid, yes? Good. That will help you survive. When Ajda says run, _run_. Defend your comrades. Can you do that, hmm?"

The soldier boy nodded. He raised his sword and shield with shaking hands, breathing deeply. At least he still had the nous to calm himself down.

"Ready your sword, guardsman. This will get very unpleasant,"

"Sigurd," he said. This one barely heard him over the roars and screams. "My name's Sigurd,"

"Do not die today, Sigurd."

“I... I won’t,” 

“Good. Now... _run!_” 

We sprang out of our shelter and hastened for the watchtower. The dragon caught sight of us and opened its ugly maw, ready to rain down more fire. This one drew her bow to its fullest length and shot an arrow straight into the beast’s throat. It screeched hideously, thrashing its serpentine head in rage. It released gout of fire from its mouth and fixed its sadistic gaze onto this one and the soldiers.

_“Brit grah!”_ the dragon boomed. _“Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!”_

The earth shook when the beast landed. This one watched in horror when the soldier boy—Sigurd—lost his balance and fell back on his haunches, and the dragon locked its teeth around his outstretched legs. Sigurd went sailing through the air and crashed into the hard tower wall. He crumpled into a useless heap, his head lolling over one shoulder. 

Helplessness, utter helplessness mixed with fury and fear roiled in Ajda’s stomach. Seeing the soldier boy tossed about, as if he was nothing but a rag doll, sent a jolt of mind-numbing adrenaline into this one’s veins. Ajda saw red. For a moment, this one saw nothing of the battlefield and the guards fighting for their lives and honor. There was only Ajda and the great ugly beast before her.

Repeating her stunt with the black dragon from Helgen, this one clambered up the remains of the watchtower bridge and roared louder and lengthier than a Senche-raht charging into battle.

The dragon’s head snapped to this one’s direction. Its scaly lips (did dragons even have lips?) curled into a vicious snarl as its piss-yellow eyes burned into this one’s slitted ones. It's jaws snapped at this one, missing this one’s head by a hair’s breadth, but Khenarthi’s winds guided this one’s feet. Ajda leapt over the dragon’s snout and plunged a dagger deep into the beast’s eye.

The dragon's howls and roars would have sundered a mountain by their sheer volume. Had Ajda not been wearing a hood, this one was sure her ears would have bled. The dragon beat its wings and took flight. The sudden lurch sent this one rolling down the dragon's horned neck and onto its back. The winds whipped at this one's eyes and threatened to blow this one clean off the air and onto the ground in a heap of broken bones and spattered viscera.

_"Jai'mor kha'jay! Ai Ajda, di tsin'ra wafa satilali yava jerno shabar—"_ this one cursed. The dragon thrashed and jerked mid-air and successfully loosened this one's hold on one of its protruding horns. This one unsheathed her other dagger and thrust it through its wing membrane. It was as thick as sail canvas but it split evenly as this one descended down its entire length. This one could only scream when the rush of falling freely went to this one's head and made this one's heart thunder in her chest. 

Instead of smashing head-first onto the ground, this one was caught by a strong pair of armored arms. The soldier who caught this one buckled from the force of this one's fall and we rolled harshly onto the rocky earth.

"You alright, cat?" Ajda’s savior coughed. 

"No," this one wheezed. Ah, it hurt to breathe. This one hoped that not too many of her ribs were broken from the fall. "Many thanks."

With one of its wing membranes torn cleanly, the dragon flailed helplessly in the air, screeching and yowling for the world to hear. 

_“Nid! Dii viing! Dii bod! Hi fen aus fah daar, joore!”_ the beast cried.

It then crashed right next to a farm dangerously close to the capital. This one scrambled out of the soldier’s hold and dashed towards the dragon, ignoring the horrendous, bruising pain that nearly brought this one to her knees. The prospect of seeing Whiterun up in flames like in Helgen was enough for this one to keep going despite the agony. From afar, this one heard the unmistakeable boom of Nordic battlecries, the slashing of steel, the rending of flesh. 

The dragon breathed its last, letting loose a keening roar—aggrieved but defiant over its defeat. For a moment, Ajda’s heart squeezed. 

“It’s dead!” 

“The beast is dead!”

Cheers and whoops echoed throughout the tundra along with raucous, obnoxious chants of “Whiterun! Whiterun!” 

The soldier who saved this one from the fall sprinted past this one and joined his comrades in their after-battle high. They laughed, embraced, and beat their chests in pure elation. Seeing the rather... masculine display of victory was quite invigorating. But alas, Ajda had a few aching bones and the state of her mind to attend to. The adrenaline high was slowly fading and the pain was starting to creep in. 

"Khajiit!" called the jarl's housecarl. Slung around her neck was Sigurd, who appeared to be flitting in and out of consciousness. Ajda draped the other half of his body over her shoulders.

"Sigurd, wake up! Look! The dragon is slain. You have done well, young soldier," this one babbled. “You will feast and dance with your comrades soon,”

"_You've_ done well," a guard piped up beside this one and grasped Sigurd's arm. "We'll take him from here. You probably need some healing too. That was the craziest stunt I've ever seen in all my days,"

"And that was the hairiest fight I've been on in decades," the jarl's housecarl remarked, amusement barely shining through her blood-red eyes. "Well, here's a dead dragon. Now we know we can kill them,"

"Any..." Ajda gasped. Oh dear, now everything did hurt. "Any casualties?"

"Injuries. None dead, praise Azura. You'd better get yourself to Danica at the Temple of Kynareth. Of all the idiotic, hare-brained _capers_—hacking and slashing at a dragon mid-air... We were lucky the fire-breathing n’wah hadn’t razed the city to the ground," the Dunmer admonished but paused. "Hmm. You know, Whiterun could use someone like you. Someone of your..."

"Lunacy?"

"Fortitude. But yes, lunacy indeed. Get yourself healed, Khajiit. Report to the Jarl as soon as you're able."

Ajda gave the jarl's housecarl—Irileth, this one remembers—a tired two-fingered salute. This one approached the dragon's corpse. It was just as fearsome as it was alive. An odd sense of grief overtook this one. How sad it was that this once mighty beast, a hunter of the skies, was felled by a mere squadron of city guards, none of them particularly ‘legendary’ in any sense. This one took the time to admire the dragon up close.

It was beautiful. Its scales and hide were white—not like snow, but whiter than bone and ivory—and opalescent. Its horns curved elegantly instead of jutting out jaggedly like the black dragon from Helgen, and its body and wings were sleek and streamlined. Ajda laid a hand on its snout and sent two prayers to Alkosh, one for blessing her and the Whiterun guards with the strength to slay a legendary beast and one in respect and penitence for ending the life of one of His children. 

"Ajda is sorry she called you ugly. You are... were... far more pleasant to look at than your kin from Helgen." this one whispered.

There was nothing left to do but watch as the once great dragon was gawked at, torn apart, and looted. This one shambled inside the city gates, intent on getting herself healed and ruminating on how this one's life had taken a turn for the strange. 

  


* * *

  
Fredas, 21st of Last Seed, 4E201  
9:15 AM

Ajda awoke refreshed and clear-headed. Still, it took this one great effort to sit up properly, much less move her torso.

"Oh no, you don't!" warned a firm, no-nonsense voice. "I don't care what the Jarl and his damned court wants with you. You're my patient and you'll leave at my order," 

A woman in blue robes, embroidered with swirls that reminded Ajda of wind, marched up to this one. Her hands glowed a brilliant gold as she laid them upon this one's shoulders, chest, arms, and abdomen. Despite her near-military efficiency, her ministrations were blessedly gentle.

"Worry not, dear healer," this one said. "Ajda will cause you no trouble,"

"Hmph. Praise Kynareth, someone with sense. Apologies for the rude awakening. The way they were going about you, they made you sound like some sort of...” the healer trailed off, clamping her lips into a tight line.

“Sort of...?”

“Wild... individual. The sort who’d march out of the temple without so much as a by-your-leave like _most_ of the rabble I deal with on a daily basis,” the healer scowled pointedly at a bedridden soldier near this one. He looked thoroughly chastised. 

This one merely shrugged. "That is quite a presumption. It does sound like something this one would do when she is hungry, though. To tell the truth, this one is feeling just that,"

The healer looked somewhat relieved. "I suppose neither of us should have anything to worry about. You'll be right as rain in a few moments and you'll be free to sate that appetite of yours all you want,"

"Many thanks, healer,"

"You're welcome. Danica's the name, by the way. I’m this temple’s head priestess,"

"Ajda. Well met, priestess,"

"Likewise. _Now_ you're free to go. And on your way out, kindly tell that damned commander to cease his incessant demands and summons of my patients or so help me, I'll show him there's more to the Restoration school than healing."

This one exited the temple and squinted at the bright mid-morning sun. This one would have liked to enjoy the wonderful warmth but an older—unfortunately balding—heavily armored man, his Whiterun cloak fluttering proudly in the wind, affixed this one with a pointed look. The two guards he conversed with just moments before flanked him as he marched toward this one. There was no mistaking the commander of the city guard, as most men of his station tended to comport themselves as creatures with an aversion for patience, fun, and breathing. 

"So you're the dragonslayer everyone's going on about," he said, looking at this one from above his nose. 

"Ajda is she," 

“So you admit to calling yourself a dragonslayer? After felling one dragon?” the commander quipped, an ill-concealed smirk playing on his lips.

Ugh. 

“Kill one bear, they call you ‘hunter’. Kill one man, they call you ‘murderer’. This one killed a dragon. You call Ajda what you like.”

One of the guards behind him snickered, oblivious to the sharp look the other sent him and the tensing of the commander's shoulders. The commander merely harrumphed and bade Ajda to follow him to Dragonsreach.

As this one and her chaperones approached the dais, the jarl greeted Ajda with a gracious smile. Beside him, Irileth nodded imperceptibly. This one started when a firm hand clapped her shoulder. A man, grizzled and grinning, winked at this one.

“Good to see you alive, cat.” he said. More men joined his side, forming a line before the jarl. They showed no signs of weariness from the battle—either a testament to the priestess’ expertise in healing or their pride at having felled a dragon. Among them was Sigurd, smiling despite his discomfort in manipulating his crutches. As if prompted by a signal, they knelt on one knee and bowed their heads in deference to the jarl. Ajda did her best following suit, but fumbled rather embarrassingly at the wholly foreign action. This one had never ‘bent the knee’ to any liege lord or dame before. While it was fascinating in its novelty, it threatened to bend Ajda’s digitigrade legs out of shape. So this one settled for resting both knees on the ground with her hands on her thighs, as a disciple did before one’s master. As this one had done so long ago. 

"Arise, guardsmen," Jarl Balgruuf ordered, his hardened but kindly face glowing with pride, “and guest,” he inclined his head towards this one. The court fell silent when the jarl readied himself to speak. His deep voice boomed across the hall, rich and sonorous. He did not shout, and yet Ajda was sure anyone outside the palace would have heard every single word. 

“You stand before me and the people of Whiterun as heroes, slayers of a beast of whose kind has not graced this mortal plane since legends walked the earth and men spoke in the Voice of Kyne. You have fought bravely and honorably, as only the truest warriors have. While your sacrifices were great—” the jarl cast Sigurd a look of regret. The man squared his jaw, but his eyes glistened wetly. This one felt pity for the young soldier. It was evident that he felt his days of fighting were over too soon.

"—it is a profound relief that no lives were lost. All of you have done this hold and her people a great service, one that will never be forgotten, as it shall ring lasting and true in the annals of Whiterun’s history. Such valor should not go unrewarded. You have deemed yourselves more than worthy of being called protectors of the hold and as such, by my right as Jarl of Whiterun, I hereby grant you all the choice of whatever weapon you desire—a weapon of Skyforge steel.”

A collective intake of breath swept through the court, but none was louder nor more ecstatic than the soldiers’ beside this one. 

This one tilted her head in bewilderment. What in blazes was a _‘Sky-forge’?_ If such a thing carried this sort of weight among these people, why had Sven not mentioned it at all?

Ah, yes. These were warriors of Whiterun, not bards from Riverwood.

The jarl nodded and smiled as each men named their weapon of choice—axe, sword, hammer, shield—mighty tools for proud Nord folk. Predictable, yet strangely humbling. Yes, the Nords were big, burly, bumbling buffoons on an boring day, but ah, how they breathed strength and glory. Their love for their honor, how they bled for battle... it was nothing short of fascinating.

"And of course, how could we forget the one whose actions before the battle had lead us to a sure victory?" Jarl Balgruuf chuckled. This one blinked owlishly at the attention. This one keenly felt every eye trained on her—appraising, puzzling, judging. 

Ajda twitched in embarrassment, this one’s ears twitching and her tail swishing nervously. The jarl prompted this one choose her weapon, again granting this one a proud and kindly smile. 

“Ajda wishes to learn more on the art of armed combat. This one thinks... daggers—twin daggers would be a reasonable place to start, yes?” 

This one heard a few derisive snickers from the audience, which were immediately silenced with a glare from their liege. 

"You know your capabilities better than anyone else. Twin daggers. A fine choice, and we shall honor it."

What proceeded next was purely ceremonial. The jarl thanked them once again, gave a few parting words of wisdom and blessing, and sent this one and the soldiers on our way. Ajda followed the soldiers down the palace steps, through the plaza with the great dead tree, and up another set of stairs that led to a great building—a mead hall, Sven had told this one—that looked distinctly like an overturned ship. This one fell in step with Sigurd, who tried his best putting one foot in front of the other. His brow was scrunched in pain and beads of sweat dotted his upper lip.

This one did not insult him by extending a hand. Instead, this one gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. He seemed appreciative of the gesture, at least. 

“Hey,” Sigurd began, his voice small, too small for comfort. “Thanks for... for your help out there,” 

“Thank yourself as well. You fought bravely,” 

Sigurd scoffed bitterly. “And look where that got me,” he looked pointedly at his bandaged arm and leg. "Danica did all she could but my fighting days are over. All I'll be getting from Eorlund is a trophy,"

“Lie not to yourself and others, friend. You will fight again,” Ajda shrugged. 

The boy scoffed. "Aren't _you_ so sure?"

"This one had seen far worse before... had trained and fought with them too. But that was long ago in Khenarthi’s Roost back home, when Ajda was but a kit serving in a temple. Ah, if you would have been there, friend. The blind saw the clearest, the limbless danced the most graceful, the feeble fought the fiercest, and the broken had the most indomitable wills,"

Sigurd's bearing changed. He stared at this one for a moment or two, then turned his gaze to his arm and leg. His eyes shone brightly with hope. 

"As this one has said, you will fight again." this one said and left the conversation at that. The only thing this one knew about Sigurd was that he was a Nord and young man—a rather volatile combination knowing the strength of his race and the hot-bloodedness of youth. He would figure things out on his own.

This one and the soldiers ascended the steps to the curious _‘Sky-forge’_, and seeing it very nearly took this one’s breath away. The forge was less a forge and more a pool of lava whose heat and light appeared to pulse unearthly, as if it were _alive_ and _breathing_. Ajda was not innately inclined towards magic, but there was no mistaking the thrum of something ancient in the fires and smoke. Above it was a gargantuan rock carving of a hawk, whose great wings encircled the forge, as if guarding it. Embers glowed in its eyes and from out of its beak swirled plumes of black smoke.

So this was Kyne, the Nordic aspect of the hawk goddess. If Ajda were herself from a decade ago, she would have fallen on her knees in reverence. 

Ajda of the present wondered how in Nirn had she not noticed the landmark in the first place.

“Really is something, huh?” Sigurd piped up. “I’ll never get tired of looking at it,” 

“Whoever built this marvel was... Ajda has no words,”

“No one knows who or what built it. They say it’s even older than the elves,”

“Strangely enough, Ajda believes you,”

Sigurd chuckled. “Only saying what I know. You mentioned working in a temple of Kenar—uh... who again?”

“Khenarthi. You would know her as Kyne. And Ajda was a disciple. That is all Ajda will say, for this one misses that life quite a bit,”

“Oh. Okay.”

Sigurd and the soldiers formed a semi-circle around the forge, where a burly old Nord with pale-ash hair paused in his smithing. He surveyed the soldiers with a critical gaze and when his eyes landed on this one, they narrowed. The old Nord made a noise between a sigh and a growl. 

“Weapons’re over there by the bench. ” was all he said before returning to his work. None of the soldiers seemed surprised by the man's brusqueness; in fact, a few of them grinned.

"That's Eorlund Grey-Mane," Sigurd supplied. "The best damn blacksmith in Skyrim. He's the only one who works the Skyforge. Well, him and Avulstein and Farkas, I guess."

This one made a noncommital sound. It was difficult to stay interested when a pair of gleaming daggers beckoned to this one from the bench. They were straight and undecorated, lacking the curve this one was used to from Khajiiti daggers, but it was good steel, strong and true. There was beauty in its simplicity. This one could not have been more grateful.

"I know we're getting these for free, but damn I'd pay Eorlund thrice the base price for this if I had the coin," Sigurd breathed, giving his new war-axe an experimental twirl. "I've had my eye on this one for a week,"

"That is good. Do not squander this opportunity to train and heal in the warrior’s way, friend. And while this one would like to stay and admire this forge for a little longer, Ajda must take her leave now," this one said with a shallow bow. The man's chatter, while amiable, was starting to tire this one. With the daggers now in this one's possession, this one itched for a hunt. Sven had mentioned sabre cats prowling around the tundra and this one had went giddy at the prospect of felling an apex hunter. 

"What's the hurry?"

"Ajda had not eaten since yesterday and the deer outside are looking quite tasty,"

Sigurd laughed, bade this one goodbye, and returned to comparing swords with the rest of the men.

  


* * *

  
Morndas, 24th of Last Seed, 4E201  
6:45 PM

Ajda emerged from the dank and smelly caverns of Swindler’s Den and took great gulps of sweet, refreshing air. For the thousandth time in the past few days, this one cursed herself for getting involved with the Alik’r and Hammerfell nobility and politics. Assassins after a noblewoman who may or may not have spoken out for or against the Aldmeri Dominion was just the kind of whirlwind of mystery and intrigue that Ajda had been all too eager to jump into. 

_"Ai, Ajda. Jer ranjithka shabar tarmo draqa pofa."_ this one admonished herself. Ah well, the only good that could come out of this one's involvement was gold and hopefully a less... hostile and suspicious welcome in the Bannered Mare. 

Raindrops fell on Ajda’s head and this one swore under her breath. It was neither the time nor place to set up camp; the giants in the distance set Ajda’s tail swishing nervously and the smell of the air signalled a heavier rain tonight. 

Grumbling all the while, this one trudged through the tall tundra grass and onto the stone road leading to Rorikstead. This one would have very much wanted to crawl back into the familiar shelter of the Falkreath woods, but those were nearly a day’s ride from here. And the thought of seeking shelter in a town, a populated area with Nord residents, rubbed this one’s fur the wrong way. This one could only hope for a cozy tree or an empty pile of hay to at least nap in for the night.

The rain was pouring by the time Ajda arrived in the farming settlement. This one debated with herself on whether or not this one should stay on the path in full view of the Whiterun guard patrol or sneak around the houses to avoid confronta—

“You there! Halt!"

Dammit.

This one froze and splayed open her palms. A female guard, tall, scarred, and with one eye covered with an opaque film, looked at this one from above her nose. Black warpaint was smeared around her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. 

"Wait... I know you..." she said. Her voice took on a mildly dangerous edge.

"Uhh..." this one fumbled. "Would you believe Khajiit if this one said she helped with the dragon problem a few days ago?"

"Pull that hood down, cat,"

Ajda did as told and recognition dawned on the woman's face. "Ah. You _are_ her, then. Hmph. I ain't liking this as much as the next one, but if it's shelter you need, inn's over there. You've earned it... I guess,"

This one's shoulders slumped in relief. 

"Still, I don't care if you saved the jarl himself from a dragon, Khajiit," the Nord warned, practically spitting the word 'Khajiit'. "Cause any trouble 'round here, I ain’t gonna stop anyone from tanning your hide—hell, I’ll do it myself.” 

Ajda tuned out the guard’s threats. This one had heard them once, she has heard them all. Still, the woman's words and tone hurt a bit, despite the years of being discriminated around Cyrodiil, and even in some parts in Anequina. This one sighed and made for the inn.

This one pulled her hood over her eyes and raised the face cover to completely obscure this one's face. Double-checking whether this one's cloak hid her tail from suspecting eyes and seeing it satisfactory, this one entered the inn. Ajda's heart hammered in her chest when raucous laughter and singing filled the warm interior and the scent of cooking food, alcohol, and working folks' sweat tickled this one's nostrils.

Ajda’s stomach made a loud grumble, accompanied by the familiar pang of hunger. It was much too late to hunt, the scent of rain and drenched earth was overwhelming, and the Whiterun plains were unfamiliar grounds. This one had tried hunting deer right after she had procured her Skyforge steel daggers, but the open space and lack of trees gave her prey the advantage. This one had to live off her meagre rations—the ones she had bought from Saadia almost a week ago. 

This one slunk past the other patrons and stood an arm's length away from the bar, where a middle-aged man stood polishing mugs and tapping his foot to the bard's song. He finally took notice of this one and gestured towards an empty barstool.

"Welcome to the Frostfruit Inn, traveler! Come, come, take a seat. What can old Mralki get'cha? Mead? Ale? A room for the night?"

Ah, a room with a warm, dry bed sounded divine. Ajda flushed and willed her tail to still itself and not swish anxiously. "Eh... um..." this one paused. Azurah, help this one. "Khajiit would like a meal, thank you,"

Instead of the expected look of scorn, disgust, or fury that would normally pass any man's face at seeing one of Ajda's people in their establishment, the barkeep merely raised his brows, looked this one up and down, and returned to his polishing while adopting a courteous mien.

"Good, good. We've got some warm venison stew. I’ll go heat it up for you if you’d like,” 

“Not necessary,” this one said hastily. By the gods, why was this one feeling so nervous? 

The barkeep made his way to the cooking spit, humming all the way. This one awkwardly leaned on a post with her arms folded over her chest. The light was low enough for people to mistake this one’s fuzzy black hands as gloves. While the man's surprising neutrality, nay, _civility_ put this one at ease just a little bit, this one cannot say the same for the rest of the inn's patrons.

“Here you go, miss,” the barkeep said, laying a piping hot bowl of stew onto the table. “That’ll be eight septims.”

This one dropped the coins next to the bowl and grabbed it before the man could catch a glimpse of this one's hands. 

"Many thanks. Khajiit will eat outside. The rain is lovely tonight." this one mumbled, stuttering over words like a half-wit. Ignoring the man's confused sputtering, this one scurried to the door, cursing at herself for speaking too damn much.

This one slumped her head on a post outside. Buying food from an inn was less nerve-wracking with company like Sven. At least Ajda had him to fall back on in case things got a little hairy—Sven had to placate a few belligerent mercenaries when Ajda's presence inside the city and in the inn had raised their ire. It was not something this one wished to remember. 

Ajda was Khajiit and as Khajiit, thievery and cleverness ran deep in this one's blood as bravery and honor did in Nords'. This one could very well rob the barkeep and his little inn blind but guilt was a constant companion when he and almost every soul in Skyrim were good, honest people only trying to make a living. Stealing even a single septim from one who had little to nothing to their name went against every teaching by the Divines and Clan Mothers. Oblivion upon any fool who would snub this code and call Ajda a _jiksho-ifo_. 

This one sat in a cozy spot at the farthest end of the porch, where a few barrels blocked the torchlight. This one was just about to gorge herself on the stew when the inn doors swung open. This one ignored the heavy footfalls until they stopped just a few feet from where this one was. 

"Hey,"

This one froze. Playing her actions off as natural-looking as possible, this one brought her hood lower over her eyes and raised her face-cover past her nose bridge.

“Good evening,” this one greeted, but not daring to face the stranger.

“Likewise, traveller. Sorry for the bother, but my father says he won’t have any paying patron eating outside when there’s a good fire and good company inside. Not that we wish to impose but I kinda agree. I mean... well, it’s raining and I like the rain as much as the next person but it'll get pretty cold out soon. Uh... unless you'd prefer it that way? I could—I should... yeah..."

The more the stranger talked, the less nervous Ajda became. His voice was light and lilting, and dare this one say it, quite easy on the ears. There was no mistaking the eagerness and awkwardness of youth that coated each word. It was quite endearing. 

"Breathe," this one said. "Compose yourself. You twitter as much as a sparrow,"

"Sorry, sorry," the youth said. "So uh, you coming in?"

"That is quite alright. It is... pleasant out here, no?"

A pause.

"You know... me and my father don't got anything against strangers. Everyone's welcome in the Frostfruit Inn. Even Khajiit,"

Ajda would have upended her stew in surprise, had she not seen the boy's father's rather pleasant treatment towards herself. Ajda finally faced the youth and this one's eyes widened in wonder. 

The youth was a decent-looking lad, probably one of the more good-looking Nords this one had seen. His hair was a striking shade of red that reminded this one of autumn in the Rift. Twin braids framed his fair and freckled face, and rested on his stubbled jaw. His eyes shone a deep green in the firelight—beautiful for a Nord, Ajda supposed, but quite ordinary for a Khajiit. But what struck Ajda the most was the lad's expression. It was friendly and without the slightest hint of judgement or malice. 

How interesting... and refreshing.

Ajda smiled. “If what you say is true, then Khajiit thanks you. However, this one is not so sure your other patrons would be so welcoming, yes?” 

The lad waved a hand. “Nonsense. Some of your caravans pass here on occasion. Nobody raises a fuss when we let those merchants stay for a couple nights... at least to their faces," he cleared his throat and his face grew stern. "But don't think we're a couple of pushovers. We smell something amiss or figure out something's not where it rightfully belongs, you're out," 

"Trust this one when she says she does not steal from honest folk. And Khajiit did buy this stew, did she not, hmm?” 

“Yeah, I saw. But I’ve got my eye on you,” he warned.

“Yes, yes, this one will behave. Yeesh.”

True to the lad’s word, no patron gave this one trouble. There were a few glares and hushed mutters, but they were nothing Ajda could not handle. This one laid claim to a nice spot by the oven in the very back of the inn. The seats by the fire were tempting but the people milling around close by was enough to make Ajda’s heart race. Still, it was... nice. Being around people. The last time Ajda had the luxury of getting comfortable around (not with) people was back in Riverwood after the Helgen incident. This one welcomed the energy emanating from the throng, so unlike the ever-present thrum of life in the forests of Falkreath and Riften, but still very much alive.

Ah, Ajda really did miss people, as much as this one did not care to admit. 

The lad from earlier approached this one once again. In his hand was a bottle of ale and in the other was a wedge of cheese. He gave this one a crooked smile, all cheerful boyishness and charm that Ajda found rather adorable... for a Nord.

“Mind if I join you?”

This one shrugged. “Make yourself comfortable,” 

He plopped down beside this one without a care for the stares (and glares) sent our way. No Nord would dare find themselves on sitting on the same ground and level with someone they thought... 'undesirable'. Nevertheless, this one was quite grateful that her company for supper did not share and act on his brethren's more... _conservative_ ideals. 

"You look like you've seen your share of adventure," he commented. "I envy you that,"

"There is not much to envy. Khajiit is but a simple hunter who strayed too far from her usual grounds,"

"Hah. Wish I could 'stray too far from my usual grounds,'"

"Khajiit senses there is a story, or at least something you desire, from your deigning to break bread with this one, yes?"

The other chuckled sheepishly. "Um... well, yeah. I've always wanted to be an adventurer. You know, seeing the world, making a name for myself, knowing everything there is to know about... everything," his eyes, filled with wanderlust, shone brightly like twin stars. Ajda smiled. This one knew that feeling all too well.

"But..." his face fell on his next words. "...my father says I can't. He needs me to stay here and work the farm. Can't say I resent that. I'm all he's got. And even if he did let me be an adventurer, we couldn't afford to buy armor," he trailed off and then, as if hit with a shock spell, he turned to Ajda, looking equal parts flustered and apologetic. "Ysgramor's beard, where in Oblivion are my manners? Oh, my poor ma'd be shambling out of her grave for this. I'm Erik. Erik Mralkisson,"

"Ajda, daughter of Naiima."

This one and her newfound acquaintance clasped forearms. The rest of the evening was spent talking, joking, and, for the most part, ranting. Erik’s soul yearned for the world. He called it an ‘unimaginable agony’ for him to think about wasting his life in a little hamlet. And yet in the same breath, he spoke of a deep love for his people—kind and simple and honest as they were—and for his home that was blessed with the most fertile soil in all the Plains and the Reach, that yielded only the most bountiful harvests.

When this one finally made it to bed—Erik and his father graciously allowed this one to rent a room—all the guests had left, the candles had burnt down to the the last of their wicks, and the night neared the ‘witching hours’. With fatigue and gratitude overriding Ajda’s usual anxiety over being too near people who would sooner make a fine rug out of her, she slept. 

  


* * *

  
Tirdas, 25th of Last Seed, 4E201  
6:20 AM

Ajda awoke to screaming and roaring.

“Dragon!” 

This one scrambled out of bed, grabbed her daggers and bow, and shot out of the inn in a flash. Ajda froze. Rorikstead was in pandemonium. A dragon swooped and swerved in the air like a drunken bird, each of its wingbeats sweeping barrels, carts, and even people off their feet. It screeched, a strangled and sickly sound that had Ajda covering her ears in disgust. 

“It burns!” one man cried, clutching his leg that festered and boiled, unleashing a foul rotting stench that would have burned this one's nose hairs off were she any closer. 

The dragon let out another unearthly shriek as it crash-landed onto the inn's roof. This one had barely righted herself when it sprayed a sickly green mist into the air. It took every ounce of this one's will to not wilt at the offending smell of putrefaction. The people were in a frenzy, running every which way, calling for their loved ones, warning others, crying for help. In Ajda’s mind’s eye, flames devoured all in its path, and to the heavens floated great pillars of smoke and ash. And in the midst of all the chaos emerged the horned head of the black dragon with eyes gleaming like freshly spilled blood. 

Helgen. 

With the way this one trembled and gulped for air, one would have mistaken her for drowning. But from years of training—running, hunting, nurturing a near-paranoiac sense of preservation—Ajda soldiered on. 

The sadistic beast above this one laughed, revelling in its onslaught of decay and destruction. This one dashed out, and let loose a volley of arrows at it. It shrieked and fixed Ajda with a glare that told of this one's death through a great suffering.

“I’m out of arrows!” boomed the half-blind guard that accosted this one the night before. Without thinking, this one threw her whole damn quiver at the woman. “Give it back if you come out alive!" this one quipped. 

The dragon took flight again, laughing and spraying its ungodly foul breath every which way. In the way of the dragon's path were two little girls huddled together on their knees, petrified with fear. Ajda rushed towards them on all fours, leaping over broken carts and shattered pieces of wood and iron. Blood pounded in this ones ears while she sent prayer after desperate prayer to any deity who listened. 

"Move!" this one shrieked but to no avail. The girls remained paralyzed while the dragon descended onto the earth and started slithering towards them. It unhinged its jaw, plumes of putrid green mist oozing from between its teeth, and bore down onto the girls. 

Their screams tore this one’s heart into shreds. 

But mingling with the children's shrill voices were the dragon's and a distinctly masculine and human one. Before the dragon, holding a battered shield in one hand and a sword in the other, was Erik. 

He bashed the shield onto the dragon’s snout and thrust the sword into its nostril. Not wasting a single moment, he dove for the children, scooped them up in his arms, and ran for shelter. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fucking asshole! Motherfucker!” he bellowed while running as fast as his legs could carry. “Where the absolute flying _fuck_ is Lemkil?!”

Meanwhile, the dragon whipped its head around, screeching in pain and spraying more of its foul expectorant into the air. Ajda took advantage of its distraction and vaulted onto the dragon’s tail and clawed up its ridged back. A sense of—as the Imperials say—’deja-vu’ gripped this one, but instead of ripping a hole through the dragon’s wings, this one went straight for the head. To ground the dragon in the middle of the village where it could wreak the same amount of havoc on its feet would be immeasurably stupid. 

Gripping the beast’s neck with her legs, Ajda drove her twin daggers into its eyes, ignoring its shrieks and violent writhing. Erik rushed back into the fray, a battlecry on his lips, an axe in one hand, and a sword in the other.

Where in Oblivion was he getting his weapons from?

Erik embedded his axe deep into the dragon’s snout and dodged its powerful jaws as it clamped wildly in rage. He slid underneath the beast's unprotected chin, and, with a shout on his lips, he thrust his sword upwards. Ajda lost her grip on the damned lizard's head as it jerked and breathed its last, raining blood and green-tinged spittle everywhere. 

Erik gasped from underneath the beast's bulk and this one hurried to help him out of it. He aimed to stand, but his knees quavered like jelly and he fell back on his bottom, dragging this one along with him. 

"D-did that just... did w-we just..." he stuttered disbelievingly.

"Yes, my brave, foolish friend," this one breathed out wearily while thumping his back. "We just killed a dragon."

At that moment, a dazzling light burst from the dragon's corpse. Its scales, flesh, and blood hissed as they flaked off and vaporized, slowly stripping itself to its bones. All the while, the light pulsed violently, shining as brilliant as the aurora in a clear night sky, and as blinding as the sun at its zenith. Then as if beset with a purpose, it surged towards where this one and Erik sat stupefied.

Erik grabbed this one's hand and leaped out of the way, but the light slammed into him, knocking him and this one backwards. He was unable to do much but hyperventilate, his eyes blown wide open, in fear, pain, or in shock, Ajda did not know. Instead of engulfing the boy—or incinerating or eviscerating him, for that matter—it swirled around and seeped into his body. 

Before everyone’s eyes, the dragon’s corpse collapsed into a heap in the middle of the dirt road, nothing more than a pile of dry, old bones and loose scales.

The silence that came after was _deafening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'agra translations:
> 
> _Jai'mor kha'jay! Ai, Ajda, di tsin'ra wafa satilali yava jerno shabar..._ \- Darkest moons! Oh Ajda, of all the stupid things to get yourself involved in...  
_Ai, Ajda. Jer ranjithka shabar tarmo draqa pofa._ \- Oh, Ajda. You fell into old ways again.  
_Jiksho-ifo_ \- dust-face; Similar to the Cyro-Nordic term "do-gooder", used to describe a fair, generous, rule-following, upstanding person. It bears mention that there isn't even a word in Ta'agra for "rules". Khajiit actually value thievery, praising expert thieves, and ridiculing law-abiding citizens. They have more "heroes" who cut purses than those who cut down fearsome enemies. Truly, the complete disregard the Khajiit have for the law is baffling, considering their civilization has survived for thousands of years. The derivation of this cutting remark stretches back into ancient Khajiiti myth, and the only true source I could find was from a nomadic Khajiiti Clan Mother. This cultural affinity for kleptomania is clearly no new part of the Khajiiti identity.
> 
> Source:  
[https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/2q9xwd/tamrielic_insults_curses_cusses_and_name_calling/]
> 
> Dovahzul translations:
> 
> _Brit grah!_ \- Beautiful battle!  
_Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!_ \- My overlord will devour your souls in Sovngarde!  
_Nid! Dii viing! Dii bod! Hi fen aus fah daar, joore!_ \- No! My wings! My flight! you will suffer for this, mortals!


End file.
